


You Smell Like Shit but You Taste Like Heaven

by paigumondus



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canada, M/M, My first fic, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paigumondus/pseuds/paigumondus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After having his car stolen, Cavendish has to drive for 4 hours with the one person he absolutely positively can't stand. An unexpected wet dream and a breakdown complicate the trip,forcing the two to get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Smell Like Shit but You Taste Like Heaven

In his entire life, Cavendish had promised himself two things. One was that he would never go on a road trip. The other was that he would not, under any circumstances, associate himself with the boy with the toxic hair who probably pissed in the street. He had broken both of those promises.  
After 2 hours on the road, the blond man had decided that his chauffeur on this wonderful little romp to hell was one of the worst things that the universe ever tossed his way. He had dealt with ex-girlfriends who literally tried to kill him, a landlord who was willing to sell his tenant’s organs on the black market to make rent, and a disgusting 2 year stint of attempted higher education. If some unholy beast decided to mash all of those experiences together and make some sort of scalpel-happy, well-educated yet inherently flawed, gorgeous young woman who happened to know her way around a knife and had a target stapled firmly to Cavendish’s dick, he would still rather deal with her than Bartolomeo.  
He played shitty music from some band literally nobody had heard of, but he insisted was the, “Best mother fricking Finnish viking metal album he had ever heard,” and that the band would, “be on every station in the Great Wide North someday, mark my words, pretty boy.” Sometimes it was Pretty Boy. Sometimes it was Your Highness. It was LemonLocks, Frills, Diet Lemonade, but never Cavendish. The nicknames were never-ending, each one more irritating than the last. His car was what off-brand pick-up trucks wished they could be as ugly as, and the entire interior reeked of various substances that were definitely not drugs, but more likely animal piss. There was a thick layer of grime and a thicker layer of tension over the entire vehicle.

If a reporter, instantly enthralled by Cavendish’s good looks, decided to stop the car and ask what the gorgeous prince was doing in a car with such a disgusting beast, He would recount the story of the trip out to Fredericton to visit a friend. The day he was supposed to drive back, he found that somebody had stolen his car. As the blond panicked and called his roommate to let her know he needed a drive back to Charlottetown, he just happened to run into a certain somebody. A somebody with hair the color of a chemically altered Granny Smith Apple. The two had had classes together back when Cavendish had bothered with college, but had taken an immediate disliking to one another. Upon hearing a soundbite of Cavendish’s conversation, a cocky grin spread across his face. “Need a ride?” He had asked, flashing his keys in front of the blond’s face.  
So now Cavendish was in absolute hell, all because he couldn’t just wait for Rebecca. Why the FUCK couldn’t he just wait for Rebecca?  
“So, blue eyes,” Bartolomeo started, ever the world’s best conversationalist, “How’d you manage to get your butt to New Brunswick without a car? Did you take a plane? ‘Cuz that stuff’s way too expensive for a weekend trip.”  
“I already told you, you deaf mother fucker, I drove to the mainland in MY car, but then somebody stole MY car, so now I’m stuck with YOU in YOUR car. It’s not that complicated.” Cavendish growled, head pressed against the window. He was desperate to end any and all conversation with this freak of nature, “And what I do with MY money is none of YOUR concern, jackass.”  
“Didn’t you name your car or something?” The punk asked, ignoring the likelihood that his passenger was ready to tear his hair out. He figured that Lordi’s “Hard Rock Hallelujiah” was getting to be a bit too much from his Highness, but didn’t feel like turning the volume down quite yet. “God, what was it? Something prissy and old sounding like Gwendolyne, right?”  
“Farul, his name is Farul, where the fuck did you get Gwendolyne?” Cavendish shot, whipping around to face the driver, who had a smug grin plastered firmly on his face. The heat rose to Cavendish’s cheeks and he turned to lean against the window again, pulling his dark beanie low over his ears to hide the red color they had taken on.  
“You actually named you fucking car?” Bartolomeo snickered.  
“Bite me, cocksucker!” Cavendish barked, pulling his knees up to his chin, “I’ve had a shitty ass week and I just want to get home! So drive the damn trash truck back to the island!”  
“Hey, dude, a man’s allowed to name his car. No shame,” Bartolomeo’s words were comforting, but there was something in the way that he was fighting back laughter when he said them that pissed Cavendish off to no end.  
“God, whatever, I’m going to sleep,” the blond grumbled, curling up tighter in the passenger seat. “Good night.” His only response was a slight snort from Bartolomeo’s side.

After a few minutes of desperately blocking out “viking metal”, whatever the fuck that was, Cavendish drifted off to sleep. In his dreams he was usually alone. He was up on top of the world, reigning like a king, and crushing everybody in his way. He was the top model that his agent promised him he would be. He was getting more work than a shitty little Roots catalogue shoot. As he entered a state of dreaming this time, however, there was definitely a stranger in his mind.  
The first thing that struck Cavendish was the heat that invaded his personal space as the stranger approached him. The second thing was the stranger himself. He crashed into Cavendish like a wave into a rock, pushing without moving, but chipping away at his defenses. It was the first time Cavendish had been kissed in a dream. Even when he was in relationships, he never had any dreams about his partners. The blond threaded his fingers through his partner’s hair, pulling them closer. He had no idea what was going on, but he wanted more of it. The person let out a soft growl before attacking.  
They were fierce in their love, a lion preying on a gazelle. Teeth rammed together messily and spit dribbled from Cavendish’s mouth. As they broke apart for breath, (why the hell did he need to breathe in a dream?? Cheap ass dream physics,) the stranger dove into the crook of Cavendish’s neck, nibbling and sucking generously. The blond moaned in pleasure, a long and low sound that filled everything in the nothing they inhabited. An all-too-familiar snicker was heard. Cavendish froze, absolutely horrified at what this meant.  
“Excited, Goldilocks?” purred Bartolomeo’s voice from the stranger’s body. His form seemed to fall into place like paint dripping onto a canvas as he pulled away from Cavendish’s dream body.

Cavendish awoke with a shriek, tugging against his seat belt and panting like a dog in heat. Wait, shit, wrong analogy. Wrong dream. WRONG FUCKING LIFE. He was so shaken up by the dream that it took him a moment to realize how cold it was in the car. And then that he could see his own breath. And then that the car was stopped. Oh fuck.  
He glanced outside to confirm that nothing was moving. He wasn’t completely right, though, the car was moving a little bit. It was damn slow, but it was moving.  
“Hey, chicken head, what’s the fucking de-“ Cavendish cut himself off when he turned to see that Bartolomeo wasn’t in the driver’s seat. He glanced around before looking behind him to see a bright green Mohawk behind the car, struggling with something. In light of the blond’s dream, he really didn’t want to confront the punk right now, but he needed to know what was going on.  
Moving to unbuckle himself, Cavendish felt a heavy weight drop from his shoulders with a sound between a thump and a whomp. He twisted in the cracked leather seat to see the lump of thick fabric with ratty faux fur lining that had fallen. He picked it up, frowning as he unbuckled himself, but wrapping it around his shoulders anyway. No way in hell was he turning down a jacket in this weather. Early spring on the East Coast of Canada was absolutely hellish, and today was an example of that. Cavendish slid out of the car, hair sticking in every direction under the sun. He looped around to see Bartolomeo stuggling to push the truck, sweat dripping down his brow. He was wearing a dark, long-sleeved top that showed off the slim muscles of his torso while he worked. Okay why wasn’t this guy wearing a fucking jacket?  
“Prissy pants, you’re awake!” The man grunted, rising from his work. Okay, the dude was pretty much built like a racecar. Damn nice build, but streamlined. His prominent hipbones jutted out from sagging pants, daring Cavendish’s eyes lower. “Woah, dude, you happy to see me or what?” Bartolomeo snickered.  
Cavendish felt his ears burning. “What the fuck is your god damn damage, you rip-off Gucci bag?! I wasn’t checking you out or anything! I mean damn where’s your fucking jacket? I’m concerned for your health, fucknugget!”  
“Uh, Beverly Hills, I’m referring to your new friend right there. Must have been one nice dream,” Bartolomeo glanced pointedly at Cavendish’s crotch. Shit on Elizabeth I’s grave, no way. How the hell had ne not noticed the massive tent in his fucking pants? “And, uh, you’re wearing my jacket.”  
“This is yours?” Cavendish demanded, voice harsh.  
“Yeah, man, you looked cold when the heat stopped working and I figured I’d be doing enough work to keep myself warm out here to I let you have it as a blanket or whatever. It’s no big deal,” The taller man shrugged.  
“Oh, uh,” Cavendish glanced at the ground, unsure of what to say. His voice screamed at him to thank the man. It wouldn’t be that hard, just two simple words. “Fuck off,” He grumbled, tossing the ratty coat at his driver, who caught it effortlessly. Nailed it.  
“So are you gonna help me push, pretty boy?” Bartolomeo asked, tugging his coat on over his shoulders, his damn beautiful shoulders.  
“Push? Where are we pushing this thing?” Cavendish demanded.  
“Moncton isn’t too far. Maybe 20 minutes if we work together. Up for it? Or are you scared you’ll chip a nail?” Bartolomeo grinned.  
“You are ON, you shithead,” Cavendish laughed, ignoring that he got harder every time the other man smiled at him.

“Okay, I spy with my little eye something that iiiiis white,” Bartolomeo said in gasping breaths.  
“Is it the snow again?” Cavendish demanded, “Because you said snow the last 3 times.”  
“No, man, this time it ain’t snow. Promise.” Bartolomeo said.  
“You said that, too,” Cavendish sighed, earning him a loud laugh from his companion. They had been pushing the car for way more than 20 minutes, but it wasn’t all that bad. “Okay, I give up. What is it?” Cavendish heaved the truck again, pushing it a solid 5 centimeters.  
Bartolomeo bumped shoulders with Cavendish, “It’s you, man!”  
“I swear to fucking God I am going to leave you out here and go on to Moncton my own.” Cavendish said, but the way he laughed when he said it nulled the threat.  
“We’ll get there soon, anyway,” Bartolomeo said, He sounded confident, but he glanced at the sky with a worried expression. It would be dark soon, and they both knew it. Dark meant cold, and the heat in the truck wasn’t working for shit.  
“So, hey, what were you doing in Fredericton, anyway?” Cavendish asked, trying to change the topic.  
“Me? Usual stuff, I guess. Shopping, a play that ISN’T Anne of Green Gables. Some culture, I guess. And I, uh,” He paused, suddenly bashful.  
“And what? Come on, don’t hold out on me, man,” Cavendish pressed.  
“I had a job interview with this tattoo parlor there. Really big deal.” A genuine smile spread across the man’s face, lifting his nose ring a bit off of his lip. He didn’t look half bad when he smiled.  
“And how did that go?” Cavendish asked.  
“I think it went pretty well!” Bartolomeo beamed, “If this works out, I can finally get off of the island!”  
“What’s so bad about the island?” Cavendish asked, the question blurring in the air in a puff of visible breath.  
“You want to get out, too, right?” Bartolomeo asked, “That’s why you do that modelling stuff. You know how it is. Everybody knows everybody else but nobody knows the right people. I don’t want to live like that anymore.”  
“And you think Fredericton, New Brunswick will be better?” Cavendish asked, struggling to bring a positive mood to the negative air that had just surrounded the conversation.  
“Darn Tootin,” Bartolomeo nodded, leaving it at that. The two continued to push.  
“So what about you?” Bartolomeo asked after a while.  
“What about me?” Cavendish asked, glancing away from Bartolomeo.  
“Why were you in Fredericton? Get a gig or something?” the punk asked, shaking his hands out to ward off numbness before returning to the car.  
“Yeah, something.” Cavendish muttered.  
“That bad, huh?” Bartolomeo asked carefully, glancing at Cavendish. The blond nodded solemnly. “Sorry I asked, Cav.”  
Cavendish froze in place. Cav? Not Shrimp or Princess or Diet Lemonade? Cav? He smiled a bit to himself. It was pretty casual, but he could get used to it. Somehow while pushing this greasy rust bucket, the two had formed a more concrete bond than Cavendish had formed with anybody in his life. Suddenly he loved this shitty little car.  
“Hey, uh Bartolomeo,” Cavendish muttered, glancing at his companion. Bartolomeo looked over to him and holy shit in this light he looks absolutely perfect, “Thanks for the ride or whatever, I guess.”  
“Jesus, can’t you just thank somebody like a normal human being?” Bartolomeo chuckled, but not in his usual obnoxious way that he used to get on everyone’s nerves. It was genuine. The driver turned back to the car. Cavendish took a deep gulp of saliva before standing up on his tiptoes, leaning to get his lips closer to Bartolomeo, before a bright light shone on the two of them.  
“Hey, do you kids need any help?”

Cavendish sighed as steam rose around him in the shower. He had been on the verge of a HUGE mistake. Thank fuck for the guy who happened to be on the otherwise abandoned road in the middle of the night. He said that his name was Franky, and wore his hair in the general shape and color of Cotton Candy. As luck would have it, the man was a mechanic and agreed to fix up Bartolomeo’s junk mobile and let the two stay at his shop overnight. Cavendish had called Rebecca to ask for a ride from there. She was set to pick up him along with Bartolomeo for the last leg of the trip, and then Franky would drive Bartolomeo’s car to Charlottetown when it was fixed. It sounded complicated, but it was really the simplest thing in Cavendish’s life right now.  
Ever since he had had that stupid dream, Cavendish couldn’t look at Bartolomeo the same way. He was pretty damn attractive, in his own way, and was an okay guy when he wasn’t being completely obnoxious. Stepping out of the shower, Cavendish made up his mind. He needed to make out with him. Just once, to get it out of his system. It had worked with Rebecca, and now they were roomies and best friends. Maybe if he played his cards right he could get Bartolomeo out of his life for good. And he could definitely do it! He was fucking gorgeous! Charm on, Swag on, he could make this happen.

He could not make this happen. Cavendish, now dry and dressed to kill, stood outside of the door of the room Bartolomeo was using. His legs shook so hard he felt like he would fall over. Finally he took a deep breath and knocked. “Yo,” Bartolomeo called from inside. Cavendish had no idea what that meant but assumed he could come in.  
The first thing that Cavendish noticed was Bartolomeo’s massive chest tattoo, some sort of incomplete ring with wings; and then his abs; and then that the slept without a shirt. “What do you need, Cabbage?” So they had ditched the Cav thing. Okay.  
“I’m here to seduce you, obviously,” Cavendish said, crossing his arms.  
“Oh really?” Bartolomeo asked, raising his brows, unimpressed. He advanced towards Cavendish, shoulders hunched like a predator. He got closer and closer, and Cavendish didn’t notice that he was retreating until his back hit the door. Bartolomeo loomed over him. “You really want to play this fucking game?” He demanded.  
“Yeah. Totally.” Cavendish said. Part of him regretted his growing erection, but that part didn’t know what it was talking about. He needed this to get over everything. Just suck his face a bit, then leave him high and dry before he gets any funny ideas.  
“Alright, let’s do this,” Bartolomeo said. He wrapped an arm around Cavendish’s waist and pulled him so close that Cavendish could smell the gasoline from the shitmobile. They locked lips the way two train cars collide in an inelastic collision in a physics classroom constructed response question. In a moment they were a flurry of movement, each trying to one up the other. Cavendish tugged on Bartolomeo’s hair, Bartolomeo scraped his long nails down Cavendish’s back, leaving red marks under his shirt. The blond tugged on Bartolomeo’s lower lips, eliciting a moan deeper than the Mariana Trench. He felt his dick stiffening at the very sound of it. Suddenly he had a very stupid idea.  
“On the bed,” Cavendish panted, tugging off his shirt. He was NOT getting sweat or anything else on that thing, it was Armani. Okay it wasn’t actually Armani but a boy could dream. Without waiting for a response he shoved Bartolomeo back against the nice mechanic’s guest room bed and tugged down his pants. In an instant he froze.  
“What. The fuck. Are these?” He demanded. He stared in the face of the ghost of hideous underpants past, neon red and yellow diamonds contouring his partner’s roused erection.  
“Dude it’s just underwear, suck it up.” Bartolomeo grumbled. His face was beet red.  
“I ain’t sucking shit til these come off,” Cavendish said, throwing his hands up, “And I am NOT touching them.”  
“You are such a frickin baby,” Bartolomeo grumbled, sliding off his own boxers.  
“Oh, look, you’re a brunette!” Cavendish cooed.  
“DUDE.” Bartolomeo yelled, but was quickly cut off when Cavendish pressed his mouth against the tip of his erection. “Don’t worry about it,” Cavendish practically purred, “It’s cute,” He breathed, running his tongue slowly along the bottom of the member. Bartolomeo fell back on his elbows while Cavendish worked. He let out low gasps.  
“Oh fuck, Cavendish, you’re like, really good at this,”  
“You should say my name more often,” Cavendish said in a low tone, fondling the taller man’s balls like it was an everyday thing for him. “I might find it in myself to be a bit nicer,”  
“That’s some weird shit right there,” Bartolomeo said simply, sitting up higher on his elbows just in time to see Cavendish deepthroat his dick like an Olympic swimmer diving into a pool. Whether he meant to or not, the green-haired man found himself moaning Cavendish’s name as he worked. As he felt himself reaching his peak, he let out a shaky warning. Cavendish withdrew his mouth, but didn’t stop working. He pumped Bartolomeo with his hands until he released everything with a loud moan. Cum stuck firmly to Cavendish’s chest, some resting on the floor.  
“Holy fuck,” Bartolomeo started, huffing to catch his breath, but was cut off by Cavendish surging forward and catching his mouth. The blond pulled himself into Bartolomeo’s lap, grinding against him as he kissed him deeply and passionately. Bartolomeo gasped every time his mouth got free at all before returning for more. Cavendish was just a damn good kisser. And a good sucker. And gorgeous. And holy fuck he just needed this guy right now. “Cavendish,” He gasped out quickly. The man stopped, staring at him with feverish blue eyes. “I want you. Right now.” His voice bordered on begging.  
Cavendish grinned, running out with a promise that he’d be back in a second. He was back in less than a second with his suitcase, from which he withdrew a massive bottle of lube. “Subtle.” Bartolomeo whistled.  
“Shut up and on our back,” Cavendish ordered, unscrewing the top, “I’m going to ride you like a fucking horse.”  
“Pretty sure that’s illegal,” Bartolomeo said, picking up Cavendish by the hips and carrying him back to the bed. He seated the blond in his lap and craned his neck to kiss him fiercely, one hand tugging his hair and the other pulling off his pants. He sloppily dumped a literal buttload of lube on his hand before slowly inserting his fingers into Cavendish’s opening. He noted that the blond moaned like a girl, and it was pretty fucking hot. “You ready?” He asked, but Cavendish was already one step ahead of him, lowering his lubed up butt onto Bartolomeo’s crotch. They settled for a minute, Cavendish stretching himself out while Bartolomeo lazily kissed his knuckles.  
“I don’t know how I’m going to feel tomorrow, but right now I adore you,” He said sleepily, a grin spreading across his face.  
“Cool, thanks,” Cavendish said, finally relaxing to fit Bartolomeo’s cock. He pulled back before ramming down. Not bad, but not quite there. It took 3 tried to find the perfect angle, but when he found it he refused to let it go. He let that punk boy he had never wanted anything to do with before today pound his ass like there was no tomorrow, losing himself in the lights that danced behind his eyes. By the time they both finished, they were a sweaty mess of hair and saliva. Cavendish crawled into bed and curled up next to Bartolomeo, drawing close for comfort.  
“What the fuck was that?” Bartolomeo asked the dark silence of the room.  
“Friend sex,” Came the yawned reply, “Or I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

“And next time you call someone to ask for help, don’t just hang up mid-sentence!” Rebecca scolded from the driver’s seat. Cavendish sat to her right, watching the ocean pass by as the trio crossed the bridge to Prince Edward Island, “I was really worried!” She continued.  
“Sorry about that, Becca,” Cavendish sighed, “It was a dick move, I know.”  
“Just don’t do it again, promise?” She asked, “And that goes double for you, Bart!” She shot at the rearview mirror, “You had my number, you could have called for help any time!”  
“He could have what?” Cavendish demanded, turning around to see a very cocky Bartolomeo sprawled across the back 3 seats of the car.  
“Didn’t feel like it,” Bartolomeo shrugged, scratching the back of his head, “Figured we could use some bonding time.”  
“BONDING TIME MY ASS!” Cavendish thundered, drowning out Rebecca’s top 40 pop station.  
“I will turn this car right around, you little shit! Stay in your seat!” Rebecca yelled.  
“Right, right,” Cavendish grumbled, settling back down. He could just barely hear Bartolomeo slyly remark, “Well the bonding time WAS in your ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW! This oneshot was written in one night when I really didn't feel like sleeping and figured I'd better get something on here fast. I'd like to thank my friends on Twitter for encouraging me and my cat for sleeping through this entire endeavor.


End file.
